


The Opposite of Violence

by xuixos



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: M/M, Pre-Kaidan Alenko/Shepard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 21:09:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7986286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xuixos/pseuds/xuixos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kaidan rejects Shepard on Horizon, and Zaeed helps him deal with it in the second best way he knows how.</p>
<p>(The first best was shooting people, but Shepard didn't seem to want that.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Opposite of Violence

The Alliance prat walks away from his offer to join him on Horizon and Shepard's expression doesn't crumble, but it does restructure itself into something resembling a statue: blank, unknowable, distant.

Zaeed isn't surprised when he hails Joker down with venom in his voice.

He still isn't surprised when Shepard is down in the cargo hold with him a few hours later, after the mission debrief. And a shower, maybe. He doesn't smell like Collector guts anymore. The younger man is studying the model of the Turian frigate with the same carved-stone look on his face. Zaeed doubts somehow that he's actually admiring the level of detail in the paintwork.

(They've fucked before, and _that_ was something that surprised Zaeed; that he could still respect a man he'd had panting and begging underneath him, still follow him in the field and trust in the cold velocity of his orders.)

Shepard doesn't speak, and Zaeed ignores him. He settles himself at the metal counter instead. His guns are spread across it, with Jessie the unadorned and much-beloved centerpiece, and he loses himself in breaking them down. He doesn't know how much time goes by while he's dismantling them, checking his ammo rounds, swearing under his breath at the thermal clips, but he's aware of Shepard the whole time: motionless, seemingly engrossed by the model ship—until he isn't.

Shepard turns to him, every inch of him tense, like he's about to fight. Every inch of him but that mouth. Zaeed knows exactly how fucking soft that mouth is. He starts to say something, and Zaeed cuts him off.

“You didn't come here to stare all night, did you?”

Shepard scowls, brows knitting together, but he's not here because he wanted to be Zaeed's CO. He came down here because he wanted the memory of whatever that was on Horizon fucked out of him, not to lecture Zaeed on insubordination and the importance of the mission.

At least, that's what Zaeed assumes he came down here for. It's what he's getting, even if he didn't. Before Shepard can speak, Zaeed is pushing him back into the wall, and the way he lets it happen tells Zaeed he was right.

He's usually right.

The two of them don't fit together. They're the same height, and Shepard might be younger, a little more heavily muscled, but they're almost the same size, but they still don't fit right. Zaeed never minds, not in the moment. Shepard kisses him hard and desperate, biting into Zaeed's bottom lip, hips grinding into his needy and urgent, until Zaeed shoves Shepard harder into the wall, hand splayed over his right shoulder to keep him there. Shepard lets him, which is a fact Zaeed resents only a little, and is half the reason he shoves Shepard down on his knees without warning.

Shepard unzips his pants and pulls Zaeed's cock out all precise. Like he's being graded for it. Which makes sense—he might be running a rogue operation for a terrorist organization, but the man is military down to his bones, even now. Then Shepard jacks him a couple times and sucks him down, and Zaeed stops thinking about Shepard's psychological makeup.

There's no hair to hold onto, not like with a woman, but the wet heat is the same, he's learned. Shepard hums around him, lips red and gleaming with spit and stretched around Zaeed's cock, and Zaeed braces himself against the wall and gives him another handful of seconds to get adjusted. Then he starts fucking his face in earnest. Shepard moans, the son of a bitch, fucking moans with Zaeed's cock halfway down his throat, and Zaeed can feel his balls tightening up, like he's gonna come in thirty seconds flat like a kid.

His body won't let him, but he wants to. Wants to keep feeding Shepard his cock and watch the cum dribble out of his mouth, wants to leave him glassy-eyed and gasping for breath. Wants to watch him swallow it all down. He thrusts forward instead, one more time, a second; fuck, he goes for three, because it feels so goddamn good, Shepard leaning forward to take even more of him, like he can't get enough, and then pulls out.

Shepard sucks in air and doesn't look up at Zaeed, his gaze still fixed straight ahead. Zaeed looks down though. The line of Shepard's cock is straining against the black pants he wears when he's on the ship.

By the time he steps out of his underwear and sits down on the low cot Zaeed uses as a bed, Shepard looks like he's settling back into his skin, coming back from whatever place he goes to when he sucks Zaeed's cock. Shepard's own cock is still hard, bobbing against his stomach, and Zaeed watches him as he strokes it, his blue eyes gone dark and half-lidded.

Zaeed is still wearing all of his clothes, down to his worn boots. That's how they do things, when they do this. It's Shepard who gets undressed and unmade and reduced to a sweating, squirming mess underneath him, 'cause that's what Shepard needs. All Zaeed needs is to get off.

He pushes Shepard's hand away and gets onto the cot beside him, watches with something almost like curiosity as his own hand works another man's cock. It's not the first time, but he could still count on one hand—heh-- the amount of times he's done it, and it always looks strange to him: the unfamiliar shape between the circle of his finger and his thumb, the foreskin rolled down from the head, the beads of pre-cum he smears over the shaft.

He keeps at it, smooth and slow, until Shepard's cock twitches and jumps in his grip, until the other man's breathing is hitched. He'll never ask for more. Sometimes he orders more. Zaeed doesn't need either to know what to give him.

Shepard lies back on the cot, shivering only slightly with impatience, and Zaeed kneels in between his spread legs. He gets his hands beneath Shepard's thighs and lifts them up, just enough elevation to let Shepard tuck the sole pillow in the room underneath his back, and then he's leaning down, biting gently at the spot where Shepard's left thigh meets the swell of his ass, licking a swipe over the brief, red indentation.

Shepard groans again at that, curses low and indistinct, like it was pulled deep, deep out of his chest, and Zaeed stops listening to him.

Eating Shepard out is a little like working with his guns. The same careful confidence. The same sense of pride he gets when he looks at the broken down pieces of his Incisor and knows just what to do with them is the same one that hits him when he tongues Shepard's balls, sliding his hands from his thighs to pin down the other man's hips in a bruising grip as Shepard bucks up beneath him.

He loses time the same way when he's got his mouth on Shepard's asshole, licking around and past the smooth ring of muscle until it's wet and red and dripping like a goddamn cunt, and when he pulls back to just _breathe_ over his handiwork, Shepard is twisting above him and cursing Zaeed and his family and his guns and everyone he's ever loved, begging for it, begging for Zaeed to just fill him up with his cock and _Christ, are you gonna do it old man, or not, c'mon._

Kids these days are so spoiled, but coming inside of Shepard is almost as good as coming in his mouth and watching him choke on it. He lines himself up with shaking hands and bottoms out with one long slide. Shepard makes a noise that's half pleasure and half pain and bites down on the meat of his palm, but he's nodding, eyes still heavy and soft, and Zaeed leans up over him, a hand on either side of his head, and strikes up a steady rhythm.

Shepard has a hand in between the two of them, jerking his cock in swift strokes, and his eyes are over Zaeed's shoulder and Zaeed doesn't know what he's seeing but it better not be that fucking Alliance grunt who got them here in the first place. He grabs Shepard's jaw with his right hand and meets his eyes and growls _you're looking at me_ , and Shepard's gaze isn't soft anymore but hungry and he starts moaning like a whore again when Zaeed twitches inside of him and picks up the pace at a different angle.

Before he knows it, Shepard's hand around his cock is speeding up, his moans stuttered like a bad holovid, and there's his cum striping Shepard's chest, long white strips of it, and fuck, he'd better not have gotten any of that on Zaeed's shirt.

Zaeed keeps fucking him through the orgasm, even as Shepard's cock goes limp and his eyes screw shut and his hand slips to his side, and then to Zaeed's shoulder and he starts whining beneath Zaeed that it's too much, it's too much; Zaeed keeps going and Shepard is digging his blunt, short nails into Zaeed's back, pulling him closer and telling him: _faster, faster_ , his whole body except for his arms limp and boneless beneath Zaeed and it's that surrender that pushes Zaeed over the edge.

He cums inside Shepard like a shotgun, like it's being ripped out of him and _fuck_ it hasn't been that good for at least two decades. He's barely holding himself up over Shepard, a bead of sweat running down on his nose, and he only finds the strength to slip out and stand up, tucking himself back in, because there's no room on the cot for two.

It's not like he does fucking post-coital cuddling anyway. He doesn't think Shepard does either. The man doesn't look like he's doing much anything right now. He looks fucked-out and wrecked, pupils still blown, covered in his own cum and breathing heavily. His gaze follows Zaeed across the room, but he doesn't say anything.

Zaeed remembers what he said, _you're looking at me,_ and isn't sure if he's pleased or not that Shepard is still following his instructions.

He leans over his guns, hands holding him up in a white-knuckled grip on the metal edge, and stares at them. They're perfect, immaculate in the care he's given them. They, much likes Shepard, have nothing to say.

Behind him he can hear the other man starting to move, sitting up and getting dressed. After a long few minutes, a flicker of dark motion in the corner of his vision.

“Thanks for the lesson.”

And then Shepard is gone, the door sliding shut behind him. Zaeed snorts once. What a terrible sense of humor. If it hadn't already happened, Zaeed would have said it would get him killed one day.

It's a good thing, he supposes, that he's got plenty more to teach Shepard. Maybe some of it will even be useful the next time someone tries to take a swing at him. There's better things to do with that mouth, after all, than shut it up for good.

 


End file.
